Tash Aw - Map of the Invisible World

“Please wait here,” said the man in the too-large suit before disappearing into a door at the far end of the room.

She had been in this room before, she thought. The view from the windows was still the same: a giant suwar tree, its canopy dominating a stretch of lawn that ran down to the boundary railings; but the room had been much less opulent on her last visit, less gold, no carpet. Yes, she thought, it had been in this room that she had been chatting with some middle-ranking treasury people when, suddenly, the crowds parted and she had found herself face-to-face with the great man himself, dressed in his immaculate uniform, dark necktie, medals, and traditional black topi . He was smaller than she had expected, but this did not diminish the naked charm he exuded. He was forceful without being forced, convincing in every minute gesture, and his nonverbal language was simple, thought Margaret: He sought to conquer everything he encountered. When he shook Margaret’s hand she felt the roughness of the skin on his palms and saw the pockmarks on his face when he smiled. His first words as he took her hand in his were, “And what is your name?” as if they had been chatting for some time and had presumed some degree of familiarity. He spoke in English, and she, of course, replied in Indonesian: “Margaret Bates, honored to meet you.” Actually, she had responded not merely in standard Indonesian but in what scant Javanese she knew. It was said that Sukarno was never caught off guard, but her brief cameo was enough to cause him to raise an eyebrow and incline his head ever so slightly. She enjoyed that. And before he had had a chance to speak, she continued in Indonesian, knowing that she spoke with none of the hesitation that nonnative speakers usually did. It was a little hot, wasn’t it, and the rains were late that year, but, well, one mustn’t complain, for at least one wasn’t a rice farmer, poor things. “Hmm, what an exceptional woman,” he said. “And I was told you were an American!”

“Well, hardly. I was born in Irian, you see. The first years of my life were in the farthest reaches of Indonesia.”

“If you believe what the Western world says, you were born not in Indonesia but in the farthest reaches of Dutch New Guinea.”

“But anyone in their right mind — anyone with a sense of justice — knows that Papua has always belonged to us. I mean, to Indonesia.”

He smiled. “The problem is that it is ours but it does not belong to us, at least not officially.”

“Not yet. I’m very heartened to hear of the president’s intention to confront the Dutch.”

“You are not afraid of battle, I see.”

“It depends on the purpose of battle. Why do we fight? Who are we fighting? We must always ask ourselves this.”

His eyes were very dark and direct. “How wise. We fight to bring nobleness to our souls. Nobleness brings order. Order brings peace. But sometimes the struggle itself becomes, how shall I say, essential. And sometimes,” he paused and smiled, “this fighting makes you feel alive.”

“Life is a battle.” She shrugged. “Without battle there is no life.”

He laughed, the lines on his face creasing deeply. “What a fascinating American you are.” He continued to look her in the eye as he moved away, and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Afterward she had felt flushed and giddy with something she could not articulate; it was a feeling that lasted days, if not weeks.

Virtually everything had changed in this room, even the smell. Before, there had been that pleasant aroma of food and wood, slightly musty but entirely welcoming, but now Margaret could smell nothing except the faint whiff of wool carpets. She was certain that there had been a Toraja carving mounted on the wall where the mirror hung; and she could not remember the Venetian chandelier (there had been plain glass lanterns, surely). She sat patiently and drew her fingers idly across the envelope she was carrying, feeling the outlines of the two slides contained inside.

Someone appeared in the doorway at the far end of the room. It was not her guide with the ill-fitting suit, but a much younger man in a smart, vaguely military-looking suit, not quite a uniform but not really civilian dress either, the buttoned epaulets and breast pockets giving him the air of an adventurer. There was a colored emblem stuck to his lapel that looked like a military decoration, but Margaret could not be sure; she was never very sure about these things. He walked briskly, with the upright bearing of a soldier, quickening his stride as he approached her.

“So sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “I’m one of the president’s aides-de-camp. Hello, pleased to meet you. Unfortunately, there’s been a slight problem. There was an incident yesterday.” He smiled and frowned at the same time, managing to look at once unruffled and concerned. “The president’s schedule has therefore been rearranged.”

“Goodness, that sounds serious. Where was it?”

The smile-frown played across his face once more. “Don’t be alarmed, it was nothing serious. A security threat at an official occasion the president was attending — not far from here, actually, right in the center of town. At the Hotel Java. It shows that such things can happen anywhere. Sadly there is much unrest on the streets of Jakarta these days. We have to treat everything seriously, no matter how minor.”

“So where is the president? Does this mean I won’t get to see him today?”

He smiled, without the frown this time. “I’m sorry, but he is — detained elsewhere.”

She imitated his half smile, half frown and stood up slowly. “That is a shame because I’ve brought something of great value to the president, something that would interest him very much. A gift from the people of America.”

“The president is not interested in gifts from the United States of America.” He held his smile firmly.

“I understand. But I said that this is a gift of the people of America, the good ordinary people who are his friends. I didn’t say it was a gift from the president of the United States.”

He hesitated, his smile beginning to weaken. “I fail to understand the difference.”

“Here,” she said. “See what you think.” She reached into the envelope and took out both slides, handing him one. “I’m sure you’ll be able to recognize its worth.”

He held it up to the light, turning it from side to side, like a child regarding an unfamiliar new toy. He doesn’t have a clue what it is, thought Margaret. She said, “It is something very rare and very valuable.”

He did not answer but glanced at her with a look of self-conscious disdain, which Margaret knew was a giveaway signal as to his lack of understanding of the situation. “It is something important to the Indonesian people.”

“Please do not tell us what the Indonesian people value. I think I would recognize something that was truly valuable to us.” He lowered the slide and held it out to her, turning his shoulder slightly as if preparing to leave.

“It is, above all,” Margaret said quickly, “something dear to the president himself. Something he treasures. Its beauty and value may not be obvious; maybe you and I cannot see it, but the president can. Only he can judge for himself. I wouldn’t dare presume to do so on his behalf. Would you?” She did not reach to reclaim the slide; it remained almost motionless, tiny and lightweight.

“I don’t think this is an important thing,” he said, and looked at the translucent square resting gently between his thumb and index finger.

Margaret shrugged and made a bowing motion with her head, as if deferring to his decision. She took half a step backward to show that she too was ready to leave. “Very well. That decision is yours to make, I understand. But please do remember that what might be valuable to you might not be so to someone else. Beauty and nobility and all the unquantifiable things that the Javanese value are, unfortunately, overlooked by us, the people of the West. There’s so much beauty in this painting. I thought perhaps you — you are Javanese, aren’t you? Yes, I thought so — well, I thought you might see that. But I have done my duty and you have done yours. It is time to bid each other good-bye, I think.”